Aversion
by ForeverMATT
Summary: Matt had a reason to refuse. OneShot.


**Title: **Aversion

**Summary: **Matt had a reason to refuse.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own DN or anything referenced.

**Author's Note: **Needed to write something... like this.

...

* * *

"Pick up your fucking shit, Matt; I'm sick of this mess!"

"Later, I promise."

"But you've been _promising_ for over a week!"

"This time, I mean it. I clean up your shit, don't I? So, it's not like I'm being lazy."

"Just clean up after yourself, dammit. It would only take a minute if you-"

"Then _you_ do it."

"Matt... Watch yourself. I'm so close to putting a bullet in your head."

"M'kay."

"Matt, _please_... I've gotta go. Just pick up a little before I get back, alright?"

"Uh, sure... Right after I beat this boss. Promise."

"Liar."

The bickering between the temperamental blonde and the laid back redhead was borderline routine, almost always consisting to the same topic, tones, and faux resolution.

The blonde just couldn't fathom why his Matt would go out of his way to throw away chocolate wrappers, polish his leather boots, make the bed, and even pick up clothes from the dry cleaners, and yet he refused to toss out empty soda cans or put away the folded striped shirts that rested in a basket a few feet away from the dresser.

Mello had originally declared Matt lazy, but upon witnessing the redhead on his hands and knees, scrubbing blood and mud (and everything in between) without even being asked, he began to question his initial observation. Because Matt clearly wasn't lazy, though he was very reluctant to pick up after himself. Such a thing was peculiar, and the blonde antagonist vaguely wondered if there was a sense of security hidden in the small mess; he wondered if there might be a psychological disorder in progress; he wondered... a lot of things.

But he never asked, nor did he receive an answer. But the curiosity would always be in the back of his mind, nagging at him like a half-eaten chocolate bar. And all the while, Matt would make an excuse or a false promise, or he'd distract himself with yet another game.

They'd been through this same song and dance routine so many times before, it almost seemed pointless to keep up the charade.

But Mello found comfort in the mundane of the trysts they shared, and though there was probably some sort of fuckery from his past or present that made him appreciate the one-sided arguments, he wasn't delving into his own problems; he was more interested in the clockwork beneath the mop of red that remained so close and yet so far away.

* * *

Deep burgundy carpet fibers, newly vacuumed. Redwood walls stained and glossed to produce a clean but earthy feel, washed with eco-friendly solutions. A simple twin-sized bed frame, coated with cheap bedding sets that looked too nice for the price but never allowed much warmth. A pile of stuffed animals in the corner, forming a makeshift pyramid as they were arranged in no particular order... except for the one on top (because boo-boo bear was always on top). The latest gaming console and no less than 84 cartridge games for it, most of them played and replayed by their owner. Boxes, full of board games and collectible figures, all stacked neatly next to a shelf of books, immaculate in structure and organization, given the things provided.

Any child could be happy in that room, and for a few years, Mail Jeevas was very satisfied with his room and everything in it.

So, it stands to reason that it was his comfort zone, his safety net and haven. A place he could run to. A place he could hide. A place he could confide.

His own personal fortress of solitude.

But Mail, a little redheaded boy with an endless array of smiles, needed that fortress more than he could ever let anyone know. Beneath the stripes that encased his torso... were many ugly secrets, written in blue and shaped like fingerprints, painted over reddening welts that never faded for long.

Because mommy was a happy woman who sang and danced around the kitchen to Neal McCoy, while her little boy ate a grape popsicle.

And because daddy worked all day... and came home with whiskey breath and a temper.

Mommy put on brave faces and warned her son to do the same.

Daddy just yelled.

Mommy acted like the world was perfect, built with rainbows and candy. She _looked_ happy.

Daddy just swung his hands, fisted or open, like a barbaric ape. Dad was always angry.

Mommy told her son to go to his room and play a game.

Daddy told him to stay put.

Sometimes empty threats were thrown; sometimes those threats manifested into something more dangerous.

On rare occasions, knives came into play, and the scent of stale whiskey accompanied threats of decapitation.

Thankfully, this was not such an occasion. This time, little Mail sat at the kitchen table, thwacking the buttons of a handheld and guiding Kid Icarus through level after level, even as the door opened and his father came in, muddy boots clunking against the tiled floor.

"Mess," was all the boy's father said as he kicked off his boots and left them by the door.

That one word was enough to jar the redheaded child into action. He paused his game and quickly grabbed the broom and mop from the supply closet; then he dutifully cleaned up the mess and watched his father stumble around the kitchen for food, like a clumsy bear that had just come out of hibernation.

Mail grabbed his handheld and played while his father microwaved his supper and ate.

Things were quiet, save for the occasional curse or utterance from the elder man whose beard had begun to fleck with gray over the years.

Then... "Mail, go clean your room." The demand was spontaneous enough to addle the child.

And though Mail contorted his face in confusion, he gave a slow nod and quickly appeased. He hopped off his chair, and headed to his room, around the corner and up a small flight of carpeted stairs, hand gliding along an forest-green banister. The moment his foot hit the landing, he felt secure and at home; a smile lit his face and he placed his handheld atop his headboard for easy access later. Then he sat on his bed and looked around, furrowing his brows as he tried to decide what to clean.

_...but everything looks clean already._

Toys were put away, books were neatly aligned, and games were all put away. His bed was made and not even the pictures on the wall were crooked.

In a word, it was _paradisaical_.

-Mail frowned at not knowing how to do what he'd been told; his resolve was to pass time and pretend to clean, since his cleaning was already done anyways. Unfortunately, the moment he'd come to this conclusion, he heard footsteps on the stairwell, and within seconds, his father's peppering hair and lumbering frame came into view, standing before him.

His father looked around, face redder than red and eyes bloodshot. "Looks good," he praised with a barely audible slur. "Now, go to bed."

Mail pouted indignantly at the blatant demand before opening his mouth to protest. "It's early, and I'm not tired. Can't I play quietly first? I mean-"

"Shut the fuck and go to bed, you little faggot."

And without another word, the wide-eyed redhead shut his mouth, laid on his bed, and pulled a quilt over himself. He shut his eyes tight, so tight. Too tight, like all little kids who pretend to sleep. "'Kay, I'm going to bed now, dad. G'Ni'Night."

And he waited for his dad to wish him a good night. He waited for a kind voice to say 'sweet dreams, kiddo,' but that never happened. Instead, Mail felt a hand on his cheek, thumb running along his boyishly pouty lips; he felt the hand touch his face all over -forehead, cheeks, and chin; even poking his eye a bit (though it was probably unintentional.)

Mail tried so hard to ignore the touch; he tried to think of it as a soothing gesture as he pretended to sleep. But the smell of booze on his father's breath made his imagination a little frugal, and the reality of the situation made his insides ache for reasons he couldn't quite understand.

His father's voice, gruff as usual, met his ears. "My son... How could you have been born as such a fucked up little faggot?" As he said this, thick fingers threaded red locks and gave a yank, but the child tried so hard not to react; tried to keep his eyes closed and his mouth shut as his heart absorbed the words like a punch to the chest.

That alone would be traumatizing for a child, but it only got worse. It _always_ got worse.

"It's too hot to sleep with a blanket," his father told him, knowing he was listening. The worn old quilt was pulled away, and Mail instinctively curled up, only to stifle a whine when he felt a grip on his forearm, warning him not to move. That hand gradually loosened and glided up the redhead's arm until it met his chest and trailed downward still; fingers slipped beneath the shirt, causing Mail to squirm uncomfortably.

"Dad," Mail protested quietly, one eye opening to peek at his father. "Dad, I- _No_..."

_And it always gets worse._

-The redhead found his eyes wet and his body bare. The hands of his father, so big and heavy with callouses. That breath that washed over him and made him sick... It was all so uncomfortable and terrifying, but none of it was as bad as what came next.

The heavy touches, the countless times he'd been called a 'dirty little faggot,' and the invasion of adulthood into his innocence.

It took only a few seconds for the initial fear to make the redheaded boy numb. It took only a few minutes for one man to take away a childhood. And the child that lost his childhood would spend the rest of his life trying to get it back.

* * *

Many years had passed since little Mail was hurt. And in those years, Matt was born as a carefree and happy young man. A man with little to no recollection of his past, an overwhelming desire to play games and watch cartoons, and an uncontrollable aversion to cleaning his room.

...

* * *

**/Ever just need to write something? -Review, please./**


End file.
